


Fish Tales

by KitsJay



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, baby Musketeers are adorbs, yet another kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:37:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsJay/pseuds/KitsJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The legend of Porthos's scar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fish Tales

“I heard he got it from a pirate queen,” Étienne said, drinking the last dregs of his wine. “They say he rejected her and she tried to kill him on the deck of her ship."

“Did she succeed?” one of the new recruits asked eagerly, and Étienne shot him a disgusted look.

“Of course not, boy, he’s still here, innit he? No, but she left him a scar to remember her by, and make no mistake!”

The other Musketeers roared with laughter. Treville had been in an unusually mellow mood today, pleased by the latest news from the golden boys led by Athos. Buoyed by the high spirits of their captain, the men had gathered at the local inn for a night of drinking. Such days were uncommon, and so more richly enjoyed. Étienne had been drinking heavily for the past hour and holding court, basking in the attention of the latest batch of recruits, so young he reckoned that he could scrub their cheeks and see his face staring back at him.

“That’s not what I heard,” a bold voice claimed, and Étienne’s face twisted in disgust.

“And what would you know about it, Gustave?” he said derisively. “You’d believe anything if it were told to you by a pretty face.”

The other men snickered, but still looked at Gustave with curious expressions; truth mattered less than a good story.

Gustave puffed himself up with importance. “I heard it from the source,” he said. He took a long drink from his glass, allowing the tension to build. Smacking his lips, he leisurely continued, “I met a man at a tavern in Amiens who knew him when he was just a lad. He said that he killed a nobleman when he was just a boy.”

“Where did his scar come from, then?” the raw recruit interrupted.

Gustave and Étienne exchanged knowing glances. These young pups had no patience and no appreciation for stories. Gustave continued. “Think, boy! He had just killed a nobleman – he had to disguise himself, so he took a wine bottle and cut his own face, to throw them off his trail.”

The crowd murmured appreciatively.

“Just one cut, to disguise himself?” Henri snorted. “Ridiculous.”

His twin brother, Christophe, nodded. Where one went, the other was sure to follow, and just as surely, if one said something, the other would agree.

“Besides, he grew up in the Court of Miracles, didn’t he?” Christophe argued. “What was he doing in Amiens?”

Gustave muttered darkly, but Henri cut him off. “I’ll tell you the real story. My mistress is a beautiful woman, and it’s both my pride and dismay that she never shuts her lovely mouth.”

The other men smirked and nudged each other.

“She grew up on the same street as him, you know,” Henri continued. “Knew him when he was just a lad. A devil, she said, and his mother a saint! After his mother died, the Court of Miracles took him in, and she heard the story from one of the beggars himself.”

The others leaned forward and Henri obligingly dropped his voice.

“The beggar, a man by the name of Pierre, told her that when he was barely old enough to reach a horse’s knee, he was attacked by three robbers. They’ll kill each other as quick as they’d kill any of us, to be sure! In the dark, they sneaked up on him, and one put a blade to his throat.

‘Give us your money,’ the leader growled at him, and he thought for a moment, then handed him his purse.

As they ran away to count the goods, though, he followed them, and when they were drunk off wine, he came in and killed all of them but one. That one managed to gouge his eye with his fingernails, and he left him alive as reward for his bravery.”

“ _Merde_!” Étienne cried. “What money would a poor beggar boy have on him worth stealing? Your mistress must be stupid as well as blind, to believe such a tale!”

The men roared in appreciation until a soft voice interjected.

“I heard that he was beset by a band of highwaymen who threatened to take his eye as payment when he had nothing to give them,” it said.

Another interrupted. “No, I heard he was attacked by a demon cat who promised to take his blood to his dark master, but he fought him and the forces of Hell off, single-handedly.”

Gustave and Étienne blanched when they heard the two voices striving to outdo each other with more outlandish tales. Their eyes wide, they quietly put some coins on the table and disappeared, leaving the recruits to their fate.

“-the kraken’s beak,” the other finished, and the men glanced at each other. The two figures were cloaked, their faces drawn in shadow and unrecognizable in the light.

“ _Qui êtes-vous_?” Henri demanded.

One of the men glanced at the other, his grin visible even in shadow. “Why, I believe we forgot to introduce ourselves to these fellows!”

“I believe we did,” the other voice agreed.

With a sweeping gesture, the first pulled back his cloak and gave a deep bow. “Aramis, of the King’s Musketeers, at your service.”

“And Porthos, of the same,” the second man said.

The men stared with mouths open at the pair before stumbling over each other with embarrassed nothings.

“One would think the recruits would have better things to do than sit around gossiping like little old ladies,” Porthos observed.

“I believe you are right, _mon ami_ ,” Aramis said musingly. “Perhaps we should discuss assigning extra duties with Captain Treville tomorrow, to keep them busy?”

Christophe, who had turned quite pale, suddenly blushed. “We meant no harm, _monsieurs_.”

“ _Oui_ ,” his twin nodded. “Just idle talk.”

“Ah, the devil loves idle tongues as much as he loves idle hands,” Aramis said. “And next time, be more careful of your talk. You never know who might be listening.”

The two left, managing to make it to the street before bursting into laughter.

“Their faces!” Porthos cried. “That young one nearly wet his breeches!”

“The poor things,” Aramis shook his head. “It will take a while for their pride to recover from that experience.”

Their laughter died down into companionable silence, the night broken by the sound of their footfalls and the distant sound of drunken revelry behind closed doors. Aramis nudged Porthos.

“If only they knew the real story, eh?”

Porthos shook his head with a wide grin. “They would never believe it, not even if I told them myself.”

“Can you blame them, my friend?” Aramis said. “I scarce believed it myself when you told me.”

“The truth is often a stranger tale than the best that old men in taverns could come up with!”


End file.
